


Trust No Man

by midmorning_bomb



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adult Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), F/M, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes Live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26240788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midmorning_bomb/pseuds/midmorning_bomb
Summary: Peter feels the edges of panic crawling under his skin as his own blue eyes begin to change and flicker. He shoves the corpse away, pushing back to lean against a tree. The rain is pounding harder, already washing away the blood. He struggles to catch his breath as he feels the bonds inside snapping and changing. He barks out a laugh that sounds like a sob. But feels like freedom.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 244
Kudos: 1172





	1. La lune

Peter runs alone in the preserve whenever he can.

It becomes more difficult as the pack grows. Partners marry in, children follow. Everyone wanting to share the same space, living closely together, constantly in contact. Sometimes he feels like he needs to get out just to _breathe_. And so he runs.

He runs and runs until his lungs and muscles strain and burn, sweat stings his eyes, drenching his back. It gives him time to think, or to empty his mind entirely. He settles into himself during a miserable race one completely dismal Sunday. It’s grey, too muggy, drizzling on and off. The path is all muck and tiny rivers in the dirt. His feet keep hitting the ground and his mind keeps running the same two options:

Stay. Go.

He loves his family, his pack. He can accept their flaws, the ways they’ll never change. Wolves, like humans, are broken machines, inside and out. He can accept this and stay and keep losing parts of himself, but keep all of his family.

Or he can accept those flaws, the things that tear away little pieces of him, make him feel like the earth below is pulling him down. He can accept this and _leave_. He won’t cut the cord entirely, but distance, he can have all of himself with distance.

He’s 38, nearing 39, and he wants so much more out of his life than he has now. He wants to build something, he wants to be _challenged_ for once. He learned everything about being a pack’s left hand at his grandmother’s knee, only to serve for an alpha that doesn’t believe in them. He knows Talia loves him, but she’s stifling. Their differences leave them too far apart, and he’s so tired of settling for being less than he is to keep the peace. Less sharp, less clever, smoother around the edges. He worries that if he keeps slowing down and dulling himself for those around him, he’ll end up a vacant shell.

He huffs out a breath, he’s just being melodramatic now. A whisper flits past his ear and Peter jerks back in surprise. He crouches down and surveys the area, but it’s just trees and rain, animals taking shelter from the downpour.

Real or not, the whisper is all that has him alert enough to raise his claws as he’s tackled to the ground. Red, feral eyes bore down into his, rage turning into confusion then fading, as the life sinks out of them.

Peter feels the edges of panic crawling under his skin as his own blue eyes begin to change and flicker. He shoves the corpse away, pushing back to lean against a tree. The rain is pounding harder, already washing away the blood. He struggles to catch his breath as he feels the bonds inside snapping and changing. He barks out a laugh that sounds like a sob. But feels like freedom.

Derek finds him. Peter can feel worry like sour lemons pouring off his nephew. He flashes alpha red, still too overwhelmed for a full conversation, and Derek’s eyes widen and flash back luminous blue. If Peter is surprised by the edge of desperate hope he sees there, then he’s shocked by the speed and ease with which Derek bares his neck. Peter jolts as he feels the stronger bond snap into place, and Derek slumps down against the tree beside him.

They’re both silent for a while, before Derek asks, “Does this mean we can finally leave?”

They take the body to the Nemeton. Even when his grandmother was alive, the pack was drifting from old traditions. It’s just Peter, Derek, and Cora, now doing the midnight rites. Writing love in blood at the base of the tree. As the roots devour the body of the feral wolf, Derek and Peter lay palms on the stump and let the Nemeton know they’ll be leaving the territory, apologizing for the abandonment. Peter swears he feels the faintest shiver of excited amusement.

The walk back to the main house is quiet. Peter has had a hundred stolen moments with his niece and nephew where they discuss what they would do if they could ever leave. They’ve packed everything they’d need in a storage locker outside of town, ready to go at the flick of a claw. Over the past few years, everything of real value has been moved there, the rooms at the pack house and Peter’s apartment just window dressing. He thinks Talia would probably be heartbroken knowing the three of them feel so trapped in Beacon Hills, in her pack, under her leadership. She wouldn’t change, though.

Cora is standing on the porch, breathless with wide eyes when Derek and Peter come into sight. Peter flashes his eyes at her with a smug grin and she charges forward with a matching smile, jumping into his arms to wrap him in a hug. He nearly topples, trying to get a grip on his squirming, laughing niece, as she bares her neck while doing a passable impression of a cephalopod.

Nothing stays private or quiet for long at the house, and soon the porch is filled with family members trying to get a look. Peter keeps his gaze on Talia as a cycle of emotions passes over her face. She settles into a neutral expression edged with concern.

“Oh, little brother. I guess we’d better talk about this in my office.” She turns and nods to Deaton, moves for them to follow.

Peter notices Derek’s furrowed look, follows it to the emissary who immediately shutters away the anger that had been clearly boiling below the surface.

They settle into the chairs around Talia’s desk, with Deaton standing behind her.

“Tell me what happened, Peter.”

Talia’s using the voice, crafted to be warm, but authoritative, that she affects for anything she considers to be serious business. Peter hates it.

He gives a brief overview of what happened, omitting the whisper. Derek speaks when prompted, omitting the Nemeton. If Peter were less observant, he’d miss the way Deaton’s jaw clenches before he clears his throat.

“We’re a week out from the full moon, but we can perform a ritual then to transfer the alpha spark to Talia. We can correct this with little ill effect.” Deaton’s tone is bland and calm and Peter wonders if this is supposed to be the soothing counterpoint to Talia’s well-practiced command.

Talia looks surprised but pleased, smiling at Deaton, then turning the smile to Peter, “Excellent. We can get everything back to normal, I’m sure we can manage a week.”

Derek cringes, while Cora looks down at the carpet, trying to stop the grin pulling at her mouth.

“That’s... Talia, I’m not giving you my spark.” He figures he may as well rip the bandaid off, “I’m not staying. We’ll be leaving.”

In for a penny.

“We’ve already discussed things. I have some tentative plans in place, and while I didn’t anticipate a feral alpha on my morning jog, you know a left hand is always prepared.” Peter’s gotten so used to hiding himself here, it’s difficult to let the truth show now. “Talia, we love each other, we’re family, but we don't fit. I need more than this.”

She shakes her head and looks back at the three of them. “...You said ‘we’ve already discussed things.’ Who is ‘we’?”

“Mom, come on. This can’t be that big of a surprise. Derek and I have been telling you for years what we want and getting blown off. I don’t want to settle down like Laura. He doesn’t want to join dad’s firm—”

“Oh my god, honey, you cannot both be seriously considering leaving your home, your _pack_ for dreams of opening a _garage_ or doing some landscaping. Be reasonable.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders have the stubborn set that would tell Talia he’s made up his mind, if she understood him better. Peter places a hand on Cora’s shoulder, before this devolves into another screaming match on the subject.

Talia has always wanted so badly what’s best for her children, but never got the knack of separating what she wants for others from what they want for themselves. She doesn’t understand Cora’s love of taking things apart and building them back up, the satisfaction from grease and metal and making something work. She can’t comprehend how Derek, with his sharp mind and work ethic, wants nothing more than a hothouse and roots and dirt under his nails. Cora stopped telling Talia years ago anything about her career, Derek suffered through a business degree, then promptly accepted a job at a greenhouse a town over where he’s been working for the past six years.

“Talia, they’ve already joined my pack. We’re not cutting ties, but we are leaving Beacon Hills.”

Deaton steps forward, and Peter wonders how Talia doesn’t notice the pressure growing in the room like a tangible thing, “Peter, it's unwise to be making rash decisions like this while you’re still under the influence of a new spark. I suggest we reconvene and discuss this further in the morning.”

Peter looks to the emissary and his sister. Talia is waiting for his answer, either not acknowledging or unaware of whatever it is Deaton’s trying to work. He nods slowly, “Of course, we’ll leave you two to discuss your ritual.”

He stands and ushers Derek and Cora out of the office, shuts the door behind them. They make their way outside to the driveway, avoiding family members where possible, giving platitudes where not. The Audi Q8 Peter purchased months ago, sparking jokes about an “early midlife crisis” within the pack, is parked down the drive, near the edge of the forest. Derek turns the radio on low, and leans into the passenger seat, while Cora settles into the back, tapping her fingers against the leather seat.

“...So we’re leaving now, right?”

“Yes, Cora. We’re leaving now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [La lune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPTRHYip-AQ).


	2. Flight from the city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Derek’s turn to drive, Cora chatting with him from the passenger seat, and Peter settled in the back. He’s not sure if the low frisson of energy is the alpha spark, or something else. Every mile closer to their destination has him vibrating in his skin.

(A few months ago they came across an each-uisce dragging a body into one of deepest black swamps in the preserve. It was an ugly, hard fight. They took both corpses to the Nemeton after, tribute and thanks for a battle won. After the blood and bones settled into the ground, Cora opened the mapbook she’d been carrying around for the past _year_ , idly flipping through the pages. A breeze snagged the edge of the page, the spread on Mount Shuksan, as three drops of each-uisce blood splattered from Cora’s hair onto the name of a little town at the base of the mountain. Derek hummed that he’d always wanted to visit the Cascades, and Peter figured it’s as good a place to go as any.)

Cora keeps bursting into small fits of laughter during the first couple hours of the drive. It’s infectious, and once they pass state lines, Peter pulls over. They laugh and lean into each other until they’re gasping. He worries for the land, but he can’t regret them leaving. Peter knows staying in Beacon Hills was draining, but he had no idea how completely suffocating it was for the three of them until he looks at his niece and nephew, laughing and smiling and _free_.

There’s a Hyatt in Eugene, Oregon that meets Peter’s fussy standards for lodging, where they’ll stay, rather than driving the full sixteen hours. They take turns at the wheel, only stopping once for food and a longer break. Peter has contingencies, only using cash, they swapped the licence plate on the Audi at the storage facility. But the fact is, Peter was the only one in the Hale pack who would’ve been able to track them. Talia doesn’t believe in left hand methods.

It’s Derek’s turn to drive, Cora chatting with him from the passenger seat, and Peter settled in the back. He’s not sure if the low frisson of energy is the alpha spark, or something else. Every mile closer to their destination has him vibrating in his skin. Peter hasn’t been able to make as many preparatory moves as he’d like. On the off chance Talia hired an outsider to find them, he didn’t want to leave a trail. He’s researching now what’s available when it comes to decent homes for his fledgling pack.

Perpetual is the town they chose, with droplets of blood and a breeze. It has no official pack claim, although that doesn’t always mean much for new or younger packs, and Peter is prepared to negotiate. He’s found a property that has views of Baker Lake and the mountain range. They’d have to room to run, and there are plots of land nearby that would serve well as locations for Derek to build a plant nursery. It looks like the closest thing to a local mechanic is a town half an hour away, which should work for Cora as well.

As far as the old pack was concerned, Peter was a moderately successful investing consultant. He would pour on the charm after too many questions, because how interesting is investment, really? Do tell me more about what _you’re_ up to. It worked well enough, and the pack only ever had vague ideas about what he actually did for a living.

The truth isn’t much more interesting. Peter was an _incredibly_ successful investing consultant. He has more than enough to supplement Derek and Cora’s own savings. After sending an email inquiring about the house, he sends another about a location in the small downtown, across from a coffee shop and next to a law office, for a retail space. He’s aware of how utterly trite it is to dream about moving to another city to open a book shop. He doesn’t give a fuck.

They arrive in Eugene at nearly midnight, and check into three rooms. Peter does not share hotel beds with family. Cora practically cackles, hustling down the hallway to her room. Derek huffs a laugh and shakes his head fondly, his excitement much more subdued. Peter is horrified to find himself actually overcome with emotion, at how happy and at ease his pack is, and opens his own room with hands embarrassingly shaking.

He has that odd sort of sleep that always comes with anticipation, half dead to the world, half waking up at every rustle of the sheets. He gives up a little after six, getting up to enjoy a long shower and some personal attention, followed by a proper shave. It’s seven by the time he’s done, and he texts Derek and Cora to come to his room for a breakfast of mediocre coffee and middling pastries.

“We’re going to need an emissary.”

Peter looks up at Derek, raises a brow for him to continue. He doesn’t say anything, knows his nephew will fade right into the background if someone else starts speaking. He sees Cora pause mid-bite, waiting for Derek.

“You felt it, in mom’s office.” They both nod. “Whatever Deaton was doing... It wasn’t good. Whatever ritual he was planning, have you even heard of anything like that?”

Peter snorts, “A gentle ritual, to peacefully remove an alpha spark with a nothing more than a loving nudge? No.” The only rituals Peter knows of to remove a spark are ugly and bloody. And while he may have some theories on getting around the whole death problem, he’d rather not put them to the test.

When Cora is done thoughtfully chewing, she adds, “Mom didn’t seem to notice. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. If she knew, that’s really messed up. If she didn’t, that’s worse, he’s fucking around without her knowing.”

“Look at you two. My pack is more than just a couple of pretty faces.” Peter is met with twin eyerolls. “You’re right, though. Deaton was working something in that room. We’ll wait until we’re well settled and protected before even thinking about reaching out. I’ve let some of the nearby packs and connections that I trust—”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to roll his eyes, “That I trust to be concerned enough with _themselves_ to keep an eye on Deaton. I gave them contact information that isn’t traceable.”

Peter turns up his nose as Derek packs a couple of the truly awful blueberry muffins for the road. His nephew shrugs and swallows half of one in a bite. Cora smirks at Peter’s look of disgust, and snatches the keys. “I get first drive.”

Peter takes the backseat again, surprised to find a reply already from the realtor for the house. She seems... eager.

The rest of the trip is uneventful and absolutely breathtaking. The closer they get to the mountain, to Perpetual, the cleaner the air gets. Peter can’t wait to run here. They drive right to the house to meet the realtor.

“Oh, my goodness! Out of towners, that makes sense. Let me show you around!”

Cheryl is very, very eager to show them the home. Peter would be concerned about the alacrity with which his offer is accepted, but he’s researched the house and property thoroughly, and everything came back clean.

He thinks the wide smile is going to break her face clean in half, when he makes a cash offer. She shakes his hand and practically flees to file the paperwork.

Cora stares after her, “That’s disturbing. I’m disturbed.”

Derek shrugs, “How bad can it be?”

They continue to town. Even buying outright, with a quick close, it will still be a few days before they have the house. Peter is dismayed with the options of B&B or cheap motel for the interim, but all three of them agree the potential socializing at the B&B makes the definite odours of the cheap motel more bearable.

Cora wins rock/paper/scissors and gets to pick their lunch destination. She cheats shamelessly, but with style, and Peter likes to reward bold effort.

The diner is 50s-inspired, all red and teal and shiny chrome. While Peter is mulling over the BLT versus turkey club, they hear another table gossiping:

“Did you hear someone bought the Forest House? That place is haunted _as fuck_.”

Cora smirks at Peter and Derek, who shrugs, because he’ll absolutely take a poltergeist or low-level haunting over being a 29 year old living with his overbearing parent.

Rather than sleep at the motel the first night, they decide to run the forest. The sky is so open and star-filled, it steals Peter’s breath away. They run and breathe so deeply it hurts their lungs. They race through hemlock, past red cedars and silver firs. The forest comes alive around them, buzzing with life in the early fall air. Derek spots something in the distance, a kind of shimmer, like the edge of a mirage, and catches the others' attention.

The low hum of wildlife gets stronger, and the frisson Peter has been feeling is almost drowning in its intensity. They push forward through trees, dense and swaying with energy, birds and bugs and all the small animals chittering away, to a clearing in the woods.

With a fucking baby Nemeton smack in the middle.

Peter would tell his niece and nephew to close their mouths, but his jaw is hanging open as well. Cora rushes forward, “You’re ours, aren’t you?”

She pulls out her pocket knife, drawing a quick, deep cut along her palm to drip blood onto the seedling. Peter and Derek right behind her, as she passes over the knife. Each of them bleeds for the tree, and whatever connection they had in Beacon Hills explodes tenfold. It’s overwhelming, at first, and without Peter as alpha to anchor them, they’d be lost to the earth and the wind.

They sleep huddled close together, a short distance away from their seedling. When they wake, it has grown into a sapling. What should have taken months has happened overnight. And Peter would question it, but he’s pretty sure the thing has been laughing at him since he and Derek said goodbye a couple days ago.

The three make their way back to the motel to brush the twigs and leaves out of their hair, shower, and change. Unwilling to even touch the ancient coffee maker in the room, Peter says he’ll treat them all to coffee at the shop downtown. It’ll give him a chance to check out the space for his book shop in person.

They aren’t even through the door before Peter’s mouth is watering. Derek might eat anything placed in front of him and labelled edible, but Peter has standards. And _Control the Spice_ has a display of fresh madeleine and a beautiful Bezzera espresso maker on the counter.

Derek and Cora push past him to the counter, Peter’s gaze leaving the espresso machine and catching on the stunning man working it. He’s wearing a black henley, rolled up at the sleeves, revealing a single line of tattoos, the phases of the moon along the length of his forearm. His dark brown hair is held back with a skinny red headband, and his lips are curved into a smirk.

Peter opens his mouth to say something definitely smooth and charming, when the barista speaks up: “Oh. New wolves, hey. You wouldn’t happen to know why a Nemeton sprouted up in my forest right after you rolled into town, would you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Flight from the city](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AlftMNmDH00).


	3. Moon and moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, okay. Look. This territory might not have an alpha, but it does have a _me_ , and trust me, that’s even better. A Nemeton popping up like this requires some serious mojo, so please spill now before things get messy.”

Derek and Cora’s heads snap up, and Peter’s eyes widen. Before he can respond, the barista continues.

“Yeah, okay. Look. This territory might not have an alpha, but it does have a _me_ , and trust me, that’s even better. A Nemeton popping up like this requires some serious mojo, so please spill now before things get messy.”

The lights in the shop flicker, stopping abruptly as the bell above the door rings out, and a couple of elderly women enter the shop.

The barista points toward the back, “I’ll join you guys in the back office in a minute with your drinks after Erica comes up, we can talk there.”

“But we haven’t ordered yet—” Cora doesn’t get to finish before Peter and Derek are ushering her forward. They hear the man address the women who just came in, “Tabitha! Aggie! Looks like it’s a chai kind of day for you two.”

Aggie, dressed in bright red head-to-toe, gives Peter a leering once over, while Tabitha, with blue-gray yarn braids wrapped up in a bun and a soft-looking sweater, sighs heavily. Peter’s brows climb when he hears Aggie tell Tabitha the crude things she’d do to him “if I were twenty years younger and didn’t have my bad hip.”

A laughing blonde wolf comes out of the back office, tying an apron around her waist and winking at them as she gives Aggie a high five on her way behind the counter.

The office is not exactly what Peter expected from a coffee shop back room. The walls are covered in bookshelves, tiny runes carved along the edges down to the floor. There are two comfortable-looking sofas, a computer desk in the corner with a laptop. Glancing up, the ceiling is covered in a mural of a moon, curling vines, bees and honeycomb, and another moon. Cora flops down onto the sofa and looks over the mural. Derek runs his hand along a length of runes, reading over some of the book titles.

Peter can feel the strength of the wards as he paces the small room. There’s the distinct electric feel of intention defenses. But there’s something else underneath. It feels powerful and old and wild. It’s enthralling and Peter is on the edge of recognizing it, like something on the tip of his tongue, when the barista enters balancing a tray of drinks and pastries.

He sets it on the low table by the sofas, grabs one mug for himself, and leans back against the computer desk. He takes a sip and makes a ‘go on’ motion with his hand.

“So, Nemeton.”

Peter picks up a perfectly prepared Americano and madeleine. “Of course, ah...?”

“Stiles.”

Derek makes a face, or at least furrows his brows. It’s difficult to tell his expression when his mouth is crammed full of chocolate croissant.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Stiles, I’m Peter, this is Cora and Derek.” Cora rolls her eyes, reaches for a cannelé, “My pack has recently relocated, and it seems our Nemeton followed of its own volition. While we were unaware of it, initially, we will be conducting the old rites now that we’re here.”

Peter takes the risk that he’s read Stiles correctly, and he’ll appreciate the straight forward approach. The man’s bronze eyes light up with the challenge.

“You will, huh?” He moves forward off the desk and circles the wolves. With every step, the runes nearby flare pale green then fade again. He subtly scents the air, and Peter would think him a wolf if he weren’t so clearly crackling with magic.

“We will. We’ll also want to discuss any boundaries in the town or local customs we should be aware of. Why don’t you give me your number and we can discuss it over dinner?” He smiles sharp and toothy, ignoring Cora and Derek’s respective mutterings of “Oh my god,” and, “Really, Peter?”

Stiles snorts, “Sure. We can go over the rules. No funny business, though. Aggie has dibs.”

They leave the café, after stocking up on more pastries and a bag of the house blend. They stop by the empty retail space Peter is already thinking of as his. It has Georgian-style leaded windows, with the trim and door a glossy black. Peering inside, he sees the hardwood has been painted in a deep green and red diamond pattern, meticulously cared for. There’s a long counter with an ancient cash register, but nothing else. A fresh canvas.

They make their way back to the Audi, Peter mentally running through all the logistics of getting the shop going, interspersed with thoughts of negotiating territory, curiosity about Stiles, what his role is here in town and how talented those hands might be.

It’s a long day. By the time they’re back to the motel, Derek and Cora each have a new laptop, with Derek helping Cora flesh out the business plan she’d been working on for an independent garage before they left. Peter is looking back over his research into the town. He’d been as thorough as possible, but hadn’t managed to uncover the full extent of the supernatural presence in Perpetual.

They’d bumped into two more wolves at the hardware store, a tall, stoic man with a wry smile and his equally tall and wry smiled, curly-haired companion. Derek and Cora struck up a sort of tentative friendship with them, formed mainly through prolonged silences, frowns on all sides, at least one grunt, and mutual nods before parting.

The upscale clothing boutique Peter had insisted browsing is run by a pair of swan maidens. The florist Derek stiffly introduced himself to is an Oread. They passed a yarn and hobby store, where they saw Aggie and Tabitha, surrounded by what is obviously the rest of their coven.

It’s no wonder the Nemeton followed them here. The town is alive with magic weaving through every creature there. Peter typically has little time or patience for people he doesn’t know and/or care about, but he hardly came here to start an _unsuccessful_ book store, so he strikes up conversation and pours on the charm with the locals.

After they’ve eaten and planned their next steps, they head back out to the Nemeton. It’s getting cooler quickly, and Peter picked up sleeping bags while Derek and Cora were doing their awkward best earlier to make friends. He’s vaguely proud of them.

Over the course of the day, the tree has grown another half metre, and Derek lays an offering of fertilizer spikes from the florist at the base of the trunk.

Peter watches his niece and nephew talking quietly about their plans, until his gaze drifts upward, unseasonable fireflies lighting up the clearing.

Despite falling asleep separately, Peter awakens to a mouthful of Cora’s hair and Derek’s arm flopped over his chest, his nephew grumbling in his sleep beside him. He sighs and manages to wrangle his phone, finding a text with an invitation for lunch at Stiles’ home (even deeper in the forest than the house they’ll take possession of that evening). He responds in the positive, and checks his email, finding one from a former consulting coworker in the know, and another from Satomi Ito’s left hand. Apparently their absence from Beacon Hills has been noted by both Talia and Deaton.

Peter hums thoughtfully. He sends a note back to the former coworker, thanking them for the heads up, but not answering any of the obvious fishing questions. He replies to the Ito left hand as well, a careful message that asks what it would cost for them to keep him apprised of Talia and Deaton’s movements.

He has other monitoring in place, of course, but a left hand-turned-alpha more or less on the run can never be too careful.

Back at the motel, Peter suffers through impudent eyerolls as he styles his hair, and dresses in the crisp white button-down Oxford shirt he’d picked up from the swan maidens. It accentuates his neck and the lines of his chest and he’s not going to take sass about it from a niece and nephew whose wardrobes consist of denim, dirt, and grease streaks.

Derek shrugs at Peter’s assessment, but does change into his darker jeans that don’t show the grass stains.

Peter brings along one of the bottles of Macallan sherry oak he’d packed as a gift. Even if Stiles doesn’t enjoy scotch, a good whisky always serves as a decent offering, and is useful in spellcraft.

They arrive on time, despite Peter’s fussing, to an impossible-looking house, somehow built into and around the trees. Derek has stars in his eyes when he spots the large garden and greenhouse, and Cora is already distracted by a pale blue jeep parked to the side. Peter is trying to wrangle them both to the door, when Stiles steps out onto the porch in bare feet, faded, torn jeans, and another black henley. His hair is pinned back by pewter swan barrettes that Peter recognizes from the boutique.

“Usually I like to get to know someone better before I let them pop the hood on Roscoe.”

A sheepish Cora steps back from where she’d been looking over the jeep. “’Roscoe’ looks like he has tail light corrosion. When’s the last time you had the suspension looked at?”

Stiles steps forward, grinning, “Never. I like to solve my problems the old-fashioned way.” He wiggles his fingers, letting sparks fly.

“When I open my garage, you’re letting me look at this jeep.”

Stiles’ grin widens, and Peter wants to facepalm. Before he can salvage anything, Derek is chiming in, “Is that how you’re getting the sweet woodruff to bloom this time of year?”

One beta inspecting taillights, and the other tersely grilling Stiles on how magic affects the spread of herbs is not exactly how Peter pictured territory negotiations going as an alpha. Eventually Cora finishes with the jeep and she and Peter make their way to the Muskoka chairs on the porch while Derek and Stiles’ conversation devolves ever further into plant nerdery.

Stiles stops mid-sentence and looks over to Peter and Cora on the porch, cheeks flushing red as he seems to realize his loss of focus.

“Uh, so anyway. This is my house. In the forest. But not the Forest House, that’s your house.” He’s prattling a little as he takes the proffered bottle from Peter, gaze lingering on the neckline of the white button down and flush growing darker.

“Is it really haunted?”

Stiles responds to Cora’s question with a vague wave of his hand and an “Ehh.”

He leads them to the kitchen, where curry filled with root vegetables is bubbling away. He serves up piles of rice covered in curry and vegetables, sets a jug of water in the middle of the table, and gets down to business.

“So how big is your pack? How many of you want to settle in Perpetual?”

Peter finishes his first bite (it’s delicious) and gives Stiles a smirk, “You’re looking at the whole pack right now.”

Stiles’ eyebrows raise, “Wait. A Nemeton followed _three_ of you here? From where? How big was the pack before? Wasn’t anyone else taking care of it? Are you a new alpha? What happened to the rest of the pack?”

Peter sighs and tells a censored version of the story. They belonged to a larger pack, Peter was attacked by a rogue alpha, and they left after the druid emissary recommended a ritual to remove Peter’s spark.

“Wait. The emissary was a druid, doing nothing for the Nemeton? And what _ritual_?”

Stiles looks incredulous, and Peter can’t blame him. And also feels slightly vindicated, not that he needed it.

Derek speaks up, “He didn’t really believe in the old rites for the Nemeton, the sacrifices.”

Stiles tangles a hand into his hair, tugging on the ends, “That’s not. It’s not about believing in old rites or feeding Thumper to the tree. If he’s a freaking _druid_ , he should be regularly communing with it. If you three hadn’tve been doing your wolfly grr thing, the Nemeton could easily lose control, boom! For a druid to just leave it alone, that’s messed up man, like really messed up.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip. “Okay. So you can stay in the territory. Like I said yesterday, we have no alpha here, but you met Erica and Boyd and Isaac, so you know we have wolves. I’m... I’ve been protecting the land, and I’m like, well I’m not an alpha, but I’ve got enough juice to keep the locals from going feral. Perpetual is different than other towns, you’re going to have to get along with all the other things that go bump in the night. The swan maidens and coven already like you, so there’s that. I’ll lend you a book about the town to get you up to speed. Just _lend_ though. I want it back. This is not a donation to your shop.”

Stiles ends with a narrow-eyed stare at a blinking Peter. His expression rapidly shifts as another thought pops into his head, “Oh! Do you have any like, hunter beefs or anything we should know about? Also I need to know actual names and deets from where you came from. And your last name would be great.”

Peter huffs out a breath. Stiles is equal parts intriguing and exasperating, and if his niece and nephew weren’t here, he’d like to bend him over the table.

“Hale, it’s Peter Hale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moon and moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMzua0mwrVk).


	4. Under giant trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That tree you brought to the forest, the one the Oread and swans like so much.” Peter groans, inwardly. Is there a soul in this town that doesn’t know about the Nemeton? “The grove seemed to think this emissary was feeding off it, stealing the magic? Speculation on their part, gossips’ gossip. They didn’t approve, though. Wondered if someone should be involving the Council. Your sister has kept things peaceful, but maybe it’s not so much now that her hidden left hand is gone.”

Stiles sends them off with an offer to ward their house at a discounted rate, as a welcome to new neighbours thing.

“Not free. This is not a magic charity.”

Apparently Stiles’ seal of approval means something in Perpetual, because from the next day forward, the residents of the town are a lot more open. Erica flashes her eyes in greeting when they come for coffee. Boyd doesn’t bother hiding his strength when they stop by the hardware store for building materials. The nekomata at the antique shop fetches a book Peter asks for off a high shelf with her tail.

And their house is totally fucking haunted. By a complete asshole.

Cora is amused, at first, as Peter yells at the shifting air about rearranging his books by _colour_. She’s less amused when all the standard sockets from her brand new Husky tool set are floating like wind chimes on the back porch. Very expensive, polished chrome wind chimes. Both of them threaten to blanket the property in rock salt if the nightly ethereal warblings of _Feeling Good_ don’t stop asap. Cora’s profanity-filled threats seem to impress the spirit, at least, because the next morning all of her sockets, standard and tall, are lined up on the kitchen table, shiny and polished, in order by size.

Whatever it is, it loves Derek. His hot chocolate never goes cold when he reads, his phone is always beside him when he goes to look for it, and when he’s working on the property’s large gardens late into the evening, the yard is lit by an eerie, yet helpful, phosphorescence.

Stiles spends hours, one afternoon, on the wards. They’re meticulous, protections against everything from fire to wayward druidic magics. Peter asks if Stiles can also exorcise the ghost and Stiles looks a bit affronted, saying he doesn’t see what the problem is. Peter’s eyes narrow at Stiles' hours old, but somehow still steaming hot and fresh, mug of coffee.

Both Peter and Cora have secured spaces for their business ventures, and Derek splits his time helping them. He can’t really do anything with the land purchased for the nursery until next spring. Settling down real roots, with a promised local mechanic and bookshop, warms the locals up even more. Members of Aggie and Tabitha’s coven have no end of ideas for stock for Peter’s shop. Some of the suggestions he tolerates as well as he can (not very), while others he takes to heart. Tabitha in particular knows her classic occult literature. Aggie’s proposals are more often propositions, but they also come with a healthy serving of gossip. Peter may deal in fiction, but the truth is so much more fun.

The nekomata from the antique shop, Jiaying, is over with a box of rare books she purchased from an estate a few hours south, when she shares a little gossip of her own.

“Hales, you came from Beacon Hills, yes?”

Derek looks up from the shelf he’s assembling, and Peter slowly sets down the book he’d been perusing. Their faces are blank, but Jiaying knows ready predators when she sees them. She waves a hand and smiles smugly, “You’re ours now, don’t worry. I heard some interesting news at the sale. The coven may know everything from the _mountains_ but the yōkai have all the best scandals from _everywhere else_.”

Peter’s wary look turns into a wide grin as he leans forward on the counter, while Derek goes quietly back to work, still clearly listening.

“It seems when you left, you took all the magic with you. The grove of druids at the estate said Beacon Hills’ emissary has been attempting to quietly, but desperately, look for his alpha’s wayward brother,” she snorts, “though not that quiet if they’re talking about it up here, nya?”

Jiaying looks pleased, now that she has all their attention, taps her pink ombre nails on the countertop.

“That tree you brought to the forest, the one the Oread and swans like so much.” Peter groans, inwardly. Is there a soul in this town that doesn’t know about the Nemeton? “The grove seemed to think this emissary was feeding off it, stealing the magic? Speculation on their part, gossips’ gossip. They didn’t approve, though. Wondered if someone should be involving the Council. Your sister has kept things peaceful, but maybe it’s not so much now that her hidden left hand is gone.”

Now that is interesting. Peter had always questioned what actually happened to the Nemeton in Beacon Hills. He and Cora were visiting Derek at school, when they felt a flash of pain like a lost limb. It wasn’t until Peter and Cora returned, staring horrified at the butchered tree, that they realized what happened. Peter questioned Deaton and Talia, but Deaton was evasive and Talia disinterested. They didn’t have the connection in Beacon Hills that they do in Perpetual with the Nemeton, it was impossible to sense anything but pain.

But if Deaton was siphoning magic, stealing from the land, what would stop him from stealing the tree itself? It might be blasphemy to Peter, to cut down a Nemeton and sell the wood and bark and leaves, bleed the essence dry, but for someone like Deaton? If he would work whatever enchantment he was attempting on his own pack, lie about a brutal ritual to steal an alpha spark, is it really such a stretch?

Jiaying pats his hand reassuringly, “So then. You’ll be buying the whole box, yes? I have two more in the truck.”

At the end of the day, the Hales wander into _Control the Spice_ , in desperate need of caffeine and baked goods. Isaac is at the counter, dejectedly complaining to Stiles that he’d rather live in the woods than go back to work one more day at the call centre. Stiles looks equal parts sympathetic and amused, with amusement winning out as Cora stomps up to them both.

“Call centre? You answer phones? Do you have social skills?”

Isaac gapes for a moment before replying, “Uh, yes? I mean it’s a call centre. I answer the phone and get yelled at about cell phone bills.”

“Perfect, you’re hired.” Cora nods and then tells Stiles she’ll have her regular and goes to sit in the comfy leather chairs near the window.

Isaac scrambles after her, “Wait, hired for what?”

Cora rolls her eyes and lets him know she needs someone at the shop to “deal with all the people and bullshit while I work.”

She huffs and tells him the hours and pay and he shrugs because why not? This sounds much better than the call centre.

“Hey Stiles, how much would it be for an ‘I QUIT’ cake?”

Stiles barks out a laugh and says that it’ll be on the house, as long as Isaac can get someone to record him presenting it to his terrible manager, Harris.

 _Control the Spice_ is quiet this time of day, it’s after 8pm on a Wednesday, and Perpetual won’t pick up again for another couple hours when all the nighttime things come out.

Peter takes over Isaac’s spot at the counter, watching as Stiles brings a pristine white and pink frosted cake from the fridge and starts icing Isaac’s message with a flourish underneath and a series of little red roses and hearts surrounding.

The cake might be ridiculous, but Stiles is still preparing it with precision. His tongue pokes out on his lower lip, and his forearms flex as he works the icing bag. He’s in yet another black henley, but the leather necklace is new. He looks up, sees Peter watching.

“You’re kind of a creep, Hale.”

They both hear Derek and Cora snort.

“Respect me, I’m your alpha.” The snorts turn into full laughs followed by sighs.

Peter hmphs and lifts his chin while looking away from his ungrateful betas. Stiles still catches the soft smile, though.

“So. Tell me about your day, alpha. Make any friends?”

Peter barely reigns in a growl and flare of his eyes at Stiles calling him alpha. He wants to hear it again, wants the other man beneath him, begging, saying nothing else. He clenches his jaw and tamps down his straying imagination before everyone in the shop but Stiles can _smell_ the direction his thoughts are going in. Fuck, it’s been a while, and they won’t have the soundproofing runes in place until the weekend. Luckily Tabitha and one of her new initiates is coming by to do it, instead of Aggie or Stiles.

Peter fills Stiles in on what they found out from Jiaying. He’s still debating on how much he should ask of his own connections, to look into Deaton.

Stiles finishes up with the cake, boxing it up and putting it back in the fridge. He chews his lip while tapping his fingers on a cutting board. “I have some friends, they run kind of an agency.”

Peter looks mildly unimpressed and Stiles rolls his eyes. “They know their stuff, okay? Danny and Lydia don’t mess around. ...I asked them to look into Deaton, to check the ley lines running under Beacon Hills. The ones here have been crackling like livewires since you showed up with a stowaway Nemeton.”

Stiles looks defiant, but Peter sees the hint of worry in his eyes. Since when is Stiles worried about what Peter thinks? And anyway, this could actually work out well. Peter’s network is comprised more of other left hands and various power brokers. If Stiles wants to get some kind of mystical detective agency onto things, it covers areas Peter’s connections don’t.

“That sounds perfect, sweetheart. I’d be interested to hear what they come back with.” Peter is also interested in the light flush on Stiles’ cheeks with the endearment.

“Uncle Peter! Stop flirting and buy us some more chocolate croissants, Derek ate mine!”

Derek’s self-satisfied reply is muffled by the full croissant making him look like a feral chipmunk.

Peter sighs, but orders more croissants anyway for his absurd pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Under giant trees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7C7aS_hNFJQ).
> 
> Lil' haunter is a big Nina Simone fan. [Feeling good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5Y11hwjMNs).


	5. Where's my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meditation has always been a lost cause, but if he opens his mind up to _everything_ , every scattered thought, every tangent, lets it wash all through him, that’s where he finds himself. Uses the lack of focus as a kind of filter, while watching his mother’s hair sway in the breeze with the leaves in the photo. Every time he sinks down into the magic roiling under the surface of Perpetual, it’s like drowning in honey, sticky and sweet and slow.

Stiles doesn’t have many family photos, not after. Not after. But he has some of his mom’s paintings framed and mounted on the walls. There’s a series of two they did together hanging in his study, paintings of a bowl of oranges surrounded by fresh thyme and rosemary from their garden. His mom’s canvas is warm, capturing all the rich oranges and grey-greens and soft purple velvet the bowl is set against. Stiles’ smaller canvas features blue oranges and yellow thyme that turns into a rocket ship surrounded by crooked red stars. He’d gone through a phase where he wanted nothing more than to stand on the moon.

He’s been on his own in this house for so long, the memories aren’t painful anymore, they’re more like worn, handmade blankets to curl up in. Since his grandma passed, he doesn’t really hear from family. He used to call his dad on the holidays, but he’s tired of feeling like he’s measuring time with loss.

His laptop pings with a video call, snapping him out of his melancholy. He answers with a genuine smile, “Lydia! Danny! My hottest friends. What have you got for me?”

Danny smirks while Lydia rolls her eyes. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Stiles, but creativity counts. We tried to tap the ley lines under Beacon Hills.”

“Wait, tried?”

“You can’t tap lines that are dry, Stiles.”

“Shit.” Stiles rubs a hand down the side of his face.

Lydia’s smile looks sharp and terrifying, like it always does when she has her teeth in something actually interesting and potentially challenging. “And guess which ley lines have recently lit up like Christmas morning?”

He groans and flops back in his chair.

Danny looks more sympathetic than Lydia, “You know this is a good thing for the territory. And that Nemeton. While Lydia was working the ley lines, I sent Jackson and Ethan in to meet with the alpha about moving to, and investing in, Beacon Hills.”

Danny's smirk deepens and Stiles can’t help snorting out a laugh. Jackson comes from piles of money, and Ethan from a respected (and very long) lineage of wolves. One of Danny’s favourite tactics is sending the two of them into a territory, “checking it out” before potentially settling down with their wealth and influence. As if either of them would ever leave New York.

Danny and Lydia’s agency pays them, of course, but they mainly treat the assignments like vacations where Jackson gets to be an asshole and Ethan gets to spend time with his husband away from work.

“We’ve asked them to stay a little longer than usual, which shouldn’t be a problem since the cottage they’re renting is near wine country and an apiary.” Stiles perks up and opens his mouth to speak, “Yes, I asked them to get you some pollen.”

“Danny, our love is timeless and eternal. How’d it go with Alpha Hale?”

Danny rolls his eyes, and Lydia leans back in to speak, “She’s _thrilled_ about Jackson and Ethan, and handwaved losing the Nemeton. They pushed a little on the recent exodus of the very fine Hales that ended up in Perpetual, but she seems convinced they’ll come back to the family by Christmas. She thinks they’re sowing some wild oats. Have your oats been sown, Stiles?”

Stiles regrets having this conversation on a video call instead of the phone. You can hide your stupid blush on your stupid pale face on the phone. Not like Lydia wouldn’t be able to tell anyway.

“Well that’s going to be a shitshow, but not my shitshow, not my monkeys. Deaton?”

Danny makes a face, “I’m pretty sure that’s not how that saying goes.”

“Monkeys like throwing shit, Danny. Everyone knows that. Deaton???”

Danny shakes his head and continues, “If we found you, he’s going to find you. I’d pour some of that extra juice into your territory wards. Let the coven and the deer women in the woods know. And the Hales. You should probably give the Ajatar a heads up.”

“Ugh, no, she hates me.” Stiles isn't even embarrassed by his whining. The Ajatar lives to be snippy and diss his **perfectly respectable** Finnish.

“She hates everyone, Stiles.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, “She sent you two _Christmas cards_ last year.”

They both shrug and say their goodbyes, promising to send more details around Deaton’s movements as they get them.

Tugging on his hair and chewing his lower lip, Stiles blows out a breath and launches out of the chair to get to work. Danny’s right, he really does need to get the word out. He resigns himself to a day off of calling on passive aggressive forest dwellers.

Two hours later sees him grumpily heading to his coffee shop for sustenance. He meets up with Boyd on the way there, ready to join Erica on one of her ridiculously long “breaks.” She says it’s not a break if she’s still technically behind the counter while she and Boyd make out, and Stiles is a giant sucker who can’t resist either of their pouting faces. Who knew Boyd could pout? Stiles didn’t picture the man as a pouter when he arrived in town a couple years ago, but geez, the guy gets that lower lip going and Stiles deflates like a cheap balloon.

There’s a small, smug smile tugging at the edge of Boyd’s mouth as they walk together in silence, like he _knows_ what Stiles is thinking. Stiles starts talking about when the new bookshop across the main street might open, as though he hasn’t been constantly pestering Peter. As though all of Perpetual doesn’t know how Stiles has started making time almost every day to check in on the alpha. Stiles likes to live at least 20% in denial at all times, so he continues chattering away until they reach _Control the Spice_.

“Bossman! Here on your day off? I guess it’s hard to lustfully pine over hot uncle Hale from home.” Erica grins and smacks her gum at him.

“You know, I’m basically your alpha, in addition to your boss.”

Boyd pats him on the shoulder, “You’re right. Which is why we show you all the respect Cora and Derek give Peter.”

Stiles grumbles under his breath while liberating a couple twice baked cheese tarts from the glass case on the counter.

Boyd’s not even hiding the smug smile now. “You know we can hear you.”

Stiles takes a big bite of tart _at him_ and continues back into the office.

The runes on the bookshelves light up in recognition, as the moons in the mural above shift. One of the very few photos he has left, his mother in the woods, hair moving in the breeze, sits in one of the drawers. He takes it out and sets it in the middle of the low table by the sofas, finishing off the first tart while he pushes aside the throws and pillows.

Meditation has always been a lost cause, but if he opens his mind up to _everything_ , every scattered thought, every tangent, lets it wash all through him, that’s where he finds himself. Uses the lack of focus as a kind of filter, while watching his mother’s hair sway in the breeze with the leaves in the photo. Every time he sinks down into the magic roiling under the surface of Perpetual, it’s like drowning in honey, sticky and sweet and slow.

The Nemeton is a clear presence in this in-between state, he feels its curiosity. Old knowledge, new growth. He asks it for help protecting the town, the territory, just like he asks the magic and green energies that wave and crest and converge in the heart of the forest. Threads pull out to the town, to the mountains, to the lake, but the trees hold power here.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he comes to, but it’s dark in the office and quiet in the shop. The only light comes from the waxing and waning moons in the mural, and the little sparks dancing between Stiles’ fingers. He leans back and eats his other tart, listening to the low noises of Erica and Boyd’s conversation.

He comes out feeling a little drained, stopping to ruffle Erica’s hair and give Boyd a solid bro hug. When he steps out onto the street, he sees the window across the way still lit up, Peter meticulously placing books on shelves. He raises a hand, waving at Jiaying as she closes up her shop, when he feels the push on his wards.

From the way Jiaying perks up, she’s felt something, too. Peter is standing at the door of his shop, brows furrowed, while Erica pokes her head out, “You okay, Stiles?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just you two watch the shop, okay? We’ll check it out.”

Peter’s dismay at the pale blue monstrosity they’re driving to the edge of the forest in is clear, but he's quickly distracted by Stiles. The younger man’s fingertips are giving off little sparks, trails of which follow up his arms, flickering along his neck, pooling in his messy hair. Occasionally one dances across his cheeks to die on his bitten lower lip. Jiaying meets Peter’s eyes in the rear view mirror, and she leers at him, showing off long, sharp fangs.

“Our Stiles smells like power tonight, eh, wolf?”

Stiles’ gaze flicks to the mirror to meet Peter’s, while Peter tries to reel in the obvious hunger on his face.

They reach their destination, the edge of the ward boundaries, close to the route Peter, Derek, and Cora used when they came into town. Two dark SUVs are parked at angles across the road, blocking any exit or entry. Eight black-clad hunters stand well-armed around the vehicles. It’s certainly bold. Arrogant. No style though, and both Jiaying and Peter sniff in disapproval.

They fall naturally into place behind Stiles, Peter with claws out but holding back his shift. Jiaying’s tail swaying back and forth.

“Hi. Yeah. Who are you and why are you here? If you’ve got car trouble, the mechanic doesn’t open up until Monday.”

Stiles shrugs and Peter has to tamp down his amusement. It’s true, Cora’s shop is having its grand opening next week.

“Look, kid. We’re here for the Hales and to cut down a tree. Hand us the one you’ve got, we’ll be gone by morning.”

Jiaying tuts and Peter can’t help but agree, no style at all.

“We don’t want to have to hurt—” The chatty hunter cuts off abruptly, as Stiles swings a hand out and the man is thrown back into one of the SUVs. The other hunters move to lift their weapons, but before any of them can get a well-aimed shot off, Peter is charging two of them and Jiaying lets loose a howl that has two others dropping their guns and clutching their ears. Stiles steps forward and makes a tight fist, his eyes pulsing the same light as the fireflies forever lingering around the Nemeton. The remaining three hunters start clawing at their throats, desperate for air suddenly in scarce supply.

Peter looks back, after ripping out the throat of one of the hunters, watches as Stiles continues to stalk forward with eyes gleaming, and he burns with how much he _wants._

Jiaying’s tail splits as it tears into one of the hunters on the ground, her unearthly growl echoing.

Stiles stops above the only hunter left both alive and conscious.

“Hi. **Yeah.** Who are you and why are you here?”

Peter can smell the stink of rancid fear coming off the man on the ground. He tilts his head and grabs his handkerchief from his pocket to start cleaning some of the viscera off his claws.

“Deaton... Deaton hired us. To bring the Hales in quietly, under his alpha’s radar.”

Stiles frowns and holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Give me your phone, unlock it.”

The hunter does as he’s told, with a shaky breath, then slumps back down. Smart enough to know he’s not getting out of this, even if he was stupid enough to take the job in the first place.

Stiles slips the phone into his pocket while Jiaying finishes up with the hunter.

Peter feels the frisson again, low and pleased and singing its way through the bodies on the ground.

Looks like the Nemeton is feeding well tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Where's my love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvwnIZX-1cs).


	6. I know places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, alpha. Even big bad wolves need to take a break and I know places we can go. Don’t make me take this into huff and puff pun territory. Because I absolutely will.”
> 
> Peter gives him a flat look, but sets down the books he’s holding and gestures for Stiles to lead the way.

A week after Cora has officially hung her shingle, she and Derek head out of town for a couple days to meet with some prospective builders and suppliers for Derek’s nursery. Before they left, Derek and Cora had approached Peter to suggest he talk to Stiles about becoming their emissary. It’s not that Peter hadn’t been entertaining the same idea, but he was still interested to hear why they thought Stiles would be a good fit. His nephew stumbled through it, with shifty eyes and a lot of throat-clearing and Cora nodding along.

“They all would. The others, too. Even if Stiles doesn’t want to be emissary, he could be pack. And Boyd, Erica, and Isaac. We could. We could build something together.”

Peter’s still thinking about it while putting away stock on the bookshelves, how committed his niece and nephew are to growing their little pack, to building a home here, when Stiles barrels in through the front door clearly marked ‘closed’. He flails around the space a bit, lifting up books and trinkets and putting them back in the wrong place, before stopping in front of Peter.

“Come on, alpha. Even big bad wolves need to take a break and I know places we can go. Don’t make me take this into huff and puff pun territory. Because I absolutely will.”

Peter gives him a flat look, but sets down the books he’s holding and gestures for Stiles to lead the way.

He eyes the jeep warily, and mentally makes a note that they need another vehicle or two in addition to the Audi. When they get in, though, it smells heavenly. He glances into the back and sees a well-stuffed picnic basket. Smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth, he spies a flush rising up Stiles’ neck.

Stiles does a weird, defensive little wiggle in the driver’s seat. “What? It’s going to be a long, awesome day. We’ll need food.”

“No, no, it looks divine, sweetheart. I feel very wooed.”

“That’s the idea, alpha.” He laughs and looks satisfied as Peter lets out an involuntary growl.

“Our first stop is the tree trunk library, where little Stiles spent all his time until he discovered internet porn.” He waggles his eyebrows at Peter and starts driving.

They leave the jeep in a lot across from a park. There’s a large fountain in the centre that looks like some city planner just decided to drill a hole in a giant volcanic rock, carve benches out of the same, and call it a day. They pass the fountain and come to a circle of eight tall tree trunks full of carved-out shelves and little doors.

“I think my parents openly wept with relief when they found this place. I was kind of a hyper kid.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck, with a wry grin on his face.

“Is your family from here?” Peter has been gleaning little bits of Stiles since he first met the man, but Stiles is always sly when it comes to talking about himself. And Peter knows what it is to keep yourself hidden, to obfuscate where others are open books.

“Ah, mom was. Dad moved here for a job with the satellite office of the Sheriff’s Department. He moved again, after she died. He’s retired now, living in Maine.”

And Peter so badly wants to pry, to untangle all the hints and stories packed in those few clipped sentences. He can read the tight lines of Stiles’ shoulders, the slight clench of his jaw. The way his hand goes to the leather necklace he’s never without now.

“Talia is fifteen years older than I am. We have an older brother, but he moved to Minsk when I was very young, and no one has heard from him since.” Talking about his family always makes Peter feel raw around the edges, he thinks he and Stiles must have this in common.

He ends up borrowing a couple of books from the tree trunk library, Stiles leaves two books in their place.

The next stop is a small, gravity-defying waterfall.

“Undine’s Falls, water for the faithful.” Stiles recites it like a lesson, and Peter figures there’s a story here as well.

They step under the falls, an impossible, perfect curtain of water forming a wall around them. The path has a few stone benches, and an eerie glow in the rockface. Peter reaches out to trace his fingers along the surface, only to jerk them back in surprise when the glow moves to focus around where he made contact.

Stiles is grinning wide, but not quite laughing at Peter. “The falls favour loyalty.”

“Was this a test.”

“No, I just thought you’d like a bit of...” He places his own hand against the wall, and it glows bright beneath his palm.

“Loyalty means a lot to me, too, Peter.” Stiles winks and leads them back to the jeep, seemingly oblivious to Peter’s growing hunger.

Stiles is, at least, aware of another kind of hunger, and soon they’re hiking into the forest to a clearing filled with black-eyed susans and coneflowers for a picnic. Stiles lays out a plaid blanket, and begins unpacking the basket. He hands Peter two glasses and a bottle of surprisingly not-terrible pinot noir. He lays out a fresh loaf of rustic sourdough, a generous wedge of bleu l’ermite, ripe red pears and grapes. Double baked cheese tarts from the bakery, a little container of Peter’s favourite yuzu madeleine. He looks at Peter.

“You can lower your eyebrows, I wasn’t going to get my woo on with Cheetos and energy drinks. I’m setting the bar high here, Peter.”

They eat and Stiles talks about his grandmother, how she taught him about flowers and bees. She had a small apiary, taught him how to crochet, was three-time president of the local chapter of the Horticultural Society.

“A week before she died, she was out here picking echinacea. She and my dad used to fight all the time, he wanted her to come to Maine to live with him, and she said it would happen over her cold, dead body.”

He fidgets with the honeycomb pendant on the leather band around his neck. Peter hears the words left unsaid.

“She rests here, though, with mom.”

“Was the necklace a gift from her?”

Stiles smiles, small and secretive. “Something like that.”

Once they’re done, Stiles a little flushed from the wine and Peter pleasantly full, they pack up the basket and Stiles leads them deeper into the forest.

Peter tells him about Derek and Cora growing up. How sometimes they feel like his own. That when he held Derek for the first time, nearly ten years old with a tiny life in his hands, he burst right into tears and refused to let go.

They stop at the edge of a deep pond, surrounded by silver birch and edged along the side with several large, flat rocks. The trees have grown into and around each other, creating a wild kind of lace above them. The sun filters through the burnt fall leaves to reflect on the water, it’s breathtaking. Even by the high standards of the forest and the mountains, this is paradise.

Stiles sits down on one of the rocks, takes off his chucks and socks and lets his feet dangle into the water, sending waves that make the lily pads sway. “This was her favourite spot.”

“You asked where my family is from,” he juts his chin toward the water, “this is it, for mom.”

Peter watches Stiles, studies the lines of his mouth and nose, his dark eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Stiles shakes his head with a sad half-smile, muttering, “ _You can trust your knife, Mischief._ ”

“It’s funny, you know? Things you loved as a kid, good memories. You come back as an adult and look again and see all the cracks and jagged edges. Everything was always so broken, but when you’re little, you don’t know any better.” Stiles doesn’t look at Peter as he speaks, drumming his fingers along the near-bare patch of moss on the rock, fiddling with the tall grass growing through a crack along the centre.

And Peter doesn’t know exactly what to say. He just searches Stiles’ face and thinks about how hollow his own memories of youth, apart from those with Derek and later Cora, are. Eventually Stiles continues.

“...But that’s it, right? You either accept things with all the flaws, or you just let them go. Or they just let go on their own. In the end you only have yourself, that’s what you need to live with every day.”

Stiles is looking away now and Peter is glad for it because he feels split apart. He thinks back to that day in the preserve, torn between leaving and living the unknown alone, or staying and dying inside. What he has now fills him almost to the brim. But with Stiles, he could have someone who _understands_.

“This place though,” and Peter wonders if Stiles even notices the lush moss that grows up instantly out of the rockface, following the path of his hand as he gestures to their surroundings, “This place is still perfect.”

Stiles leans his shoulder against Peter’s, and Peter takes his hand and threads their fingers together. They stay there as the sun sets, as the dusk creatures step out from the rocks and trees, as the wisps float up from the water lilies, and the descendants of the strix cry out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I know places](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DKw_xnzKok).


	7. If I had a heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at his nephew, sitting with a small, pleased smile on his face. Mug in hand, a copy of _Trees: A Rooted History_ still floating in front of him, and notes and plans for his nursery organized neatly on the dark-stained maple table. Peter feels a swell of protectiveness for his small pack. He’ll be damned if he’s going to let some shady parasite of a druid, masquerading as an emissary, take this away from him.

“Why do you look like that? You look like you asked Stiles to prom and he said yes. I hope you asked him to be our emissary, too.”

Peter levels Cora with a flat glare. “Stiles, Boyd, Erica and Isaac will be joining us for dinner tomorrow evening so that we can see if they’d like to be part of a pack with you ungrateful whelps in it. Now, Derek, tell me about how your meeting with the builder went.”

Perpetual has a local grocer with fresh meats and produce from a few surrounding farms and a very respectable selection of cheese. Aggie had been chatting Peter up one day while they were both shopping and explained that the brownies in the forest had a real taste for expensive dairy. She then felt up his bicep and offered him her number, before getting pulled away by a long-suffering (but still smirking) Tabitha.

Peter is hemming and hawing between preparing a parmesan-crusted chicken versus a rack of lamb (it’s not like he _needs_ to impress Stiles, but if Stiles _happens_ to be impressed by Peter’s cooking and _sees_ how Peter provides. Well.), when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He settles on a block of cheese and gets the butcher to slice some prosciutto di Parma before he stops to read the email. He can’t help barking out a laugh, it looks like his sister got desperate enough to turn to a neighbouring pack’s left hand for help contacting him. He’s honestly a bit shocked she’d go to the trouble, given her chilly relationship with the Ito pack.

He hums as he loads the groceries into the Audi. Stiles and his quasi-pack are due to arrive in a few hours, so he may as well get the call over with while he’s preparing dinner.

Cora is still at work when he gets home, but Derek is reading and taking notes at the dining table. He stops to take a drink from him mug and the book stays floating in front of him. Fantastic, they have company.

“Hello, nephew.”

Derek looks up and raises his eyebrows, as though Peter is being rude.

“Tch... And, no. I refuse to call it that. Hello, nephew and ghost.”

It turns out, in addition to being dead, whatever is haunting their house is also tacky. Stiles and Derek decided the thing needed a name, and threw out different and increasingly pedestrian options until Stiles suggested “Toasty” and a simultaneously joyful, eerie, and disturbing rendition of Nina Simone’s _I Sing Just to Know That I’m Alive_ started echoing throughout the first floor.

Now Peter lives with his niece, nephew, and Toasty. The ghost. It makes Derek happy, at least. Actually, outwardly happy in a way he never was in Beacon Hills. Peter is just glad whatever Tabitha’s initiate did to soundproof the bedrooms also keeps their spectral freeloader out when the door is shut. Toasty is not exactly the Perpetual local Peter would like to put on a show for.

He looks at his nephew, sitting with a small, pleased smile on his face. Mug in hand, a copy of _Trees: A Rooted History_ still floating in front of him, and notes and plans for his nursery organized neatly on the dark-stained maple table. Peter feels a swell of protectiveness for his small pack. He’ll be damned if he’s going to let some shady parasite of a druid, masquerading as an emissary, take this away from him.

“Your mother reached out to the Ito pack to make contact. Apparently she wants to make sure we’re not dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Derek’s eyebrows climb. “Are you going to call her? Will they be able to trace it?”

Peter waves a hand, “From what Stiles’ contacts reported, we’re not that hard to find with the surge of energy in the ley lines. Given that the whole town is a supernatural haven, half the things living here are giving regular offerings and rites to the Nemeton.”

Derek huffs, “Leaving eight hunters as a midnight snack didn’t hurt.”

Peter sighs wistfully, “That was a lovely evening. Anyway, I want to get this out of the way before our soon-to-be-betas arrive.”

Peter pours himself a very large glass of cabernet, and dials Talia, leaving the phone on the table on speaker, while settling in across from Derek.

It rings twice and Talia answers with a cool tone, “Talia Hale speaking.”

“Hello, Talia. Tierney was kind enough to pass along your message. I thought I’d call to reassure that we’re all alive and well, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Peter, oh my god! Where are you? Are Derek and Cora with you?” Talia is a bit breathless, and part of Peter knows her concern is genuine. The caring was never really the problem. The need for control, on the other hand...

“Yes, Talia. Derek and Cora are with me. They’re in my pack, as we attempted to explain before we left. We’re well settled, happy and whole.”

Peter can almost hear Talia glazing right over what he’s telling her, only hearing what she wants to, and she certainly doesn’t want to hear that his fledging pack is thriving without her.

“This has all gone on long enough, Peter, you’re not meant to be an alpha. We can still do the ritual. You can come _home_.”

That’s all it takes for Peter to snap. “Oh yes, **the ritual**. Tell me, Talia, did you even ask Deaton what this ritual entails? Which ritual he selected? Was it _Angitia’s Venom_? _Huldra’s End_? _Guajona’s Silent Theft_? Did you never wonder why a ritual to take an alpha spark that doesn’t result in bloody, empty death hasn’t come up before?”

“Peter! That’s—I would never!”

Derek rolls his eyes hard. Peter can’t help but sneer, “No, you wouldn’t. You’d just turn a blind eye while Deaton did. Are you telling me you were honestly unaware of what he was trying to work in your office before we left?”

“...That was for your own good, Peter, and Derek and Cora as well.”

Derek recoils like he’s been slapped, the temperature around them suddenly drops. Peter considers how farcical it is that the ghost haunting their home has more awareness of how fucked up this is than his sister does.

“We were supposed to be your pack, mom. Your family, not your prisoners.” Derek spits out the word like an offence.

“I think we’ve had enough of this conversation, Talia. We’re not coming back, and you’re not welcome to follow. Any trespass on our territory by you _or_ your emissary will be seen as aggression.”

He hangs up on Talia’s answering gasp. And takes a large swig of the cabernet.

“Well, that answers the question of whether or not she knew what Deaton was up to then. Even if she doesn’t realize what’s been happening with the Nemeton.” Peter sees how tightly clenched Derek’s jaw is, and claps his hands.

“Put away your books. You’re on carrot-peeling duty.”

Cora and Isaac arrive first, with Cora pointing him toward the guest bathroom to shower and change. Technically he works the front desk, but he always shyly offers to help clean up the garage at the end of the day, and Cora isn’t turning down free labour.

Before she heads up to her own bathroom, Derek and Peter fill her in on the call. Her answering, “I fucking knew it!” is vicious.

Stiles comes later with Erica and Boyd and a matcha crêpe cake.

Peter puffs out a little as the three of them take in the main living space. He’s been working with Jiaying and the swan maidens to find pieces appropriate for the space, and now it’s all soft creams and cool greys, complementary finishes, and shelves filled with his own book collection. His ego is quite healthy, but he also wants these four in his pack. A pack of seven, with alliances with the local coven and mountain yōkai, and a strong connection with the Nemeton, will be formidable. The power that’s been pulsing through his veins since he took the alpha spark burns with promise.

He serves dinner, parmesan-crusted and prosciutto-wrapped chicken with heirloom carrots and celeriac, absorbing the effusive praise.

They all know why they’re here. Derek and Cora are not known for their subtlety.

After everyone finishes dinner and the entirety of the cake, Peter clears his throat.

“You’ve welcomed us to Perpetual, we’d like to welcome you to our pack. Erica, Boyd, Isaac, we’d be honoured to have you as betas in the Hale pack. Stiles, we want you regardless, but I also want to offer you the position of emissary.”

Stiles meets Peter’s eyes and takes a knife from the hidden sheath at his belt. “I can’t be your emissary. I can’t submit to authority like that,” he shrugs as both Erica and Isaac snort, “but I can protect this pack. I’ll join you. You pledge me your loyalty, alpha, and I’ll pledge you my knife.”

He makes a quick slice across his palm, and extends his hand to Peter.

Boyd, Erica, and Isaac all nod, and Peter gets the sense there is more here than he understands. And while he well intends to find out, he’s also not going to turn down three strong betas and... whatever Stiles is offering.

Peter takes Stiles’ hand and runs his tongue along the rapidly healing cut, earning laughs from Boyd and Erica, darkening eyes and a stuttered heartbeat from Stiles, and groans from the rest. The moment passes and the pack bonds begin to settle in, warm and easy, as the conversation picks back up, Isaac grumbling under his breath something about ‘unhygienic’ and ‘mystical gangrene’. Stiles laughs and runs his tongue up the curly-haired beta’s cheek. Isaac squawks and Peter growls and they all go out into the forest, ending the night howling around the Nemeton.

Stiles rolls grudgingly out of bed at five the next morning, cursing his choice of profession, when he sees the text from Danny:

_Deaton ghosted last night. Ethan and Jackson on their way to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If I had a heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBAzlNJonO8).
> 
> [I sing just to know that I’m alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psJ51X8qCBQ).
> 
> I'll be honest, while reading about the Ito pack on the show to not have this completely packed with randos (congratulations Tierney, you got a promotion), I saw the whole Monroe's Army thing and it sounded super dumb. Like, "how can we fridge every character in the stupidest way possible." Maybe it was better on the show?? Anyway. I'm ignoring all that business. Everyone is alive! Except Claudia. And Papa Hale. If there was one. I feel like the actual show had to have had at least a handful of plot holes, given how hard research is sometimes. Ian Bohen's thighs tho.


	8. Trust no man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He waves for them to follow and takes them to his study. There’s a messenger bag on the desk, spilled open, next to it a pitch black mortar and pestle and several small vials. It smells like magic. And mustard.

After getting some grumbling coverage for his shift, Stiles makes his way to the greenhouse. He brushes his hand across the trunk of the tree growing through the centre of the mudroom that connects it to the house, absently noting the new shoots of vines crawling across the ceiling.

Walking through the weathered structure is like stepping into the past. He sees his mother singing, tending the plants, teaching him, always. He remembers their last summer together, gathering herbs to make preserves and poultices. He’d been so happy with the attention, all the knowledge, not realizing his mother was making the most of the time she had left.

“My little Mischief, you trust your magic and your knife, but don’t forget; don’t trust no man.”

“Not even daddy?”

And Claudia just smiling at him and ruffling his hair, returning back to harvesting rosemary while Stiles peered up at her with wide eyes trusting.

As he collects the trumpet flower and mustard seed, Stiles wonders if she already knew then what would happen to the three of them. Tabitha must have seen it coming. Stiles can still see the fierce, withering glare she gave his father as the man left his son in her care. And later, just left.

He walks deeper still through the tangle of plants, they’ve been getting ever wilder with the Nemeton thriving. He feels the pack and the trees and the runes in the iron holding up the glass panes of the greenhouse. The moon phases on his arm flare and scald with power and his grandmother’s voice whispers to him from where she left it in his pendant before she passed. He feels on the edge of overwhelmed, panic building in his chest and stops to take a careful breath in, and out. He reminds himself of the people he has, the people who won’t leave, and refocuses on the task at hand.

He trims a stem of rue, fashions it into a ring for his thumb and places a few more sprigs in his messenger bag with the rest of his supplies. The mudroom vines wrap around his fingers gently, then withdraw to seek out the doorway arch as he passes.

Peter wakes that same morning to a message from Tierney letting him know Deaton has disappeared, likely on his way north. He sends a quick thank you and makes a mental note to figure out a suitable repayment, he hates leaving debts owed.

The Nemeton pushes at the edge of his mind, hungry, angry, eager and excited all at once. Its pull has him out on the front porch, directing him to Stiles’ own home in the woods. He turns to head back in to call for Derek, and immediately gets pelted in the face with a book. He’s about to curse their houseguest from hell when he sees the title and barks out a laugh. Apparently Toasty is a bloodthirsty little thing. Peter collects the book to take to Stiles, they should have enough time to prepare before Deaton arrives.

“It’s too early to look that creepy, Peter.” Derek yawns and pulls on a grey sweater, waiting in the kitchen for his coffee to finish.

Peter narrows his eyes. “...Is the ghost actually making your coffee now? It is aware I’m the one who paid for this house, yes?”

An errant sugar packet is flung in Peter’s general direction. Exorcism might still be on the table.

They pull up to Stiles’ house just as several deer women are retreating back into the forest from his garden. Peter inhales sharply as he lays eyes on the man. Stiles is always attractive, but right now he’s stealing the breath from Peter’s lungs. His hair is tangled and wild, the warm brown of his eyes has filled his pupils and sclera, leaving pure amber in their place. He has what looks like a ring made of green, growing up across his hand. Peter shakes his head and moves to greet him, but Derek is already excitedly asking about the plant wrapping around Stiles’ wrist.

As excited as Derek gets, anyway. His eyebrows are very active.

“Aren’t you a sight, darling.” Peter pulls him into a kiss that ends with Peter biting Stiles’ lower lip and Stiles wishing they were meeting under slightly different circumstances. Derek’s awkward throat clearing has Stiles stepping back as Peter hands him the book.

“This is... where did you get this?” Stiles feels his grin growing feral, this will teach some dirtbag darach what happens when you send hunters to his town.

Derek pipes up, “Welcome basket. From the Ajatar.”

And Stiles can’t help his jaw dropping, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Stiles is absolutely passive aggressively butchering his Finnish the next time he has to meet with the Ajatar.

He waves for them to follow and takes them to his study. There’s a messenger bag on the desk, spilled open, next to it a pitch black mortar and pestle and several small vials. It smells like magic. And mustard.

Peter’s eyes linger on the paintings on the wall, while Derek settles in the desk chair to get a closer look at the plant clippings.

“Why rue?” Derek asks without looking up, fascinated by Stiles’ work.

“Protection. My supply was low, with Mabon just past, but since your tree has supercharged my greenhouse, we’ve got all we need to deal with the likes of Deaton. Just don’t get close to the nekomata with it, they hate that shit. Hate hunters more though. Especially ones that like to show up swinging their guns around, overcompensating. I’m still not sure if Jiaying is more offended he sent hunters, or that they were so stereotypical bad guy.”

“They were _tacky_.” Peter sneers and Stiles thinks it’s clear what the greater offence was for Peter.

“Well, it was a fuck up either way. The yōkai are pissed now, and the deer women and coven were already mad after they heard about what happened to the Nemeton while it was in Beacon Hills. Same with the Oreads and swan maidens.” Stiles smirks at them, his eyes flickering murky blue from brown and back again, “And I guess everyone’s gotten used to having you around. Where else is the coven going to get their hygge vanilla candle fix?”

Derek (poorly) hides a laugh with a cough, while Peter scowls. He’s been finding that a successful business means balancing his own high standards with the woefully low bar set by the public.

“We’ve got our wards, but these are going to be extra juice for you guys, since you have big ol’ Hale-sized targets on your backs. And me, I guess. Since I’m only human. Ish.” Stiles waves a hand. “I sent the rest with the deer women to protect the Nemeton and the Falls. We cover the town with the pack and the coven, the forest types will do their thing. And then we bind Deaton in the most painful way possible with your book. How’d you know we could use an Unseelie binding tome?

Peter grits his teeth, “Our phantasmal parasite managed to make itself at least slightly useful for once.”

Stiles eyebrows go up, “Whoa. Go Toasty.”

Stiles sets Derek to work with the mortar and pestle while also sending texts on his phone. Peter holds his own in hand, thumb hovering over Talia’s number. Objectively, he knows she cares, thinks what she’s done is for the best. But that she’s also gotten everything unforgivably wrong. If he wanted to salvage any kind of relationship between them, he could call her, try one last time to get her to see her emissary’s transgressions.

He locks the screen instead, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He’s not a forgiving man, and his earlier warning was the only ground he’s willing to give.

“Your eyes haven’t turned back to normal.”

Peter winces at Derek’s lack of tact, but he’s also curious and looks over at Stiles, who is sheepishly rubbing a hand along his neck. A small trail of sparks follows the path of his fingers.

“Uh, this is normal. I don’t want to waste energy holding onto a glamour when I might need it to fight.”

Peter thinks back to the pond surrounded by silver birch. When Stiles said that’s where his mother was from, he didn’t think... Apparently the man was being more literal than Peter had realized. He sees the way Stiles starts to curl in on himself and wants to tear apart anyone who has ever made him ashamed of being such a gorgeous creature. Peter pulls Stiles close and kisses his temple, breathing in deeply. Derek blinks and then looks away, embarrassed at his earlier remark or the private moment, maybe both.

When they’ve finished all the vials, they head into town. Derek goes to fill in Cora and Isaac and the other betas, while Stiles and Peter head to the yarn and hobby store, _Stitchy Witches_. Tabitha smiles a warmer greeting than Peter’s seen from her yet. Her blue-gray yarn braids are yellow-gold now, and she takes Stiles’ hand in her own, “Ah, my beautiful boy has let his sight out.”

It’s a waiting game now. Peter rubs a hand across his smooth jaw and shudders at the raw power coming off of Stiles, out of this town, the very ground. It could swallow him whole, if he let it. He wonders if he should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Trust no man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYj6wL37iQg).
> 
> Claudia, giving the solid life advice.


	9. Run cried the crawling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stiles. Why is there a python at our door?”
> 
> Stiles blinks and glances up from where he’d been grinding up powder with his pestle. “That’s actually a boa.”
> 
> Derek sighs, heavily, and glares.

There are experts, more or less, on Nemata. Their histories, mainly. The tragedies of ancient ones destroyed for power and profit. The lineage of families that live in their territories and protect them and thrive with them, and of the families that let the old rites fade to dust. But there is next to no information about how they’re grown, how they seed.

There’s no precedent for a Nemeton getting cut down, but still _alive_ , peacing right out to stowaway with a half-pack and plunk itself into a new territory.

Which means the intricate wards Stiles and the coven set up with the land, tied into the newly born Perpetual Nemeton, don’t recognize any threat when a druid and small contingent of hunter mercenaries cross their borders bearing talismans crafted from the stolen wood and bark and _life_ of said Nemeton’s previous incarnation.

The group is well-prepared, silent and cautious, but the Ajatar is as old as the forest, and she watches them, eyes narrow slits behind her cervine skull mask. She sends a rubber boa to warn the Mélusine’s spawn. It wouldn’t do to lose the boy now, she does so love to toy with him and his new mate is very appealing to the eyes.

“Stiles. Why is there a python at our door?”

Stiles blinks and glances up from where he’d been grinding up powder with his pestle. “That’s actually a boa.”

Derek sighs, heavily, and glares.

“Right, gotcha, big guy. Priorities!” Stiles walks over to the door, crouches in front of the boa and offers it his wrist. Before Peter or Derek can move to pull him back, the snake has sunk its fangs into Stiles’ pale skin, while his eyes flare once more, this time the wispy green glow of his runes.

“Well, shit.”

Stiles is an angry storm brewing as he shepherds Peter and Derek out of the house and locks up. Sparks snap violently from his fingertips as he explains that Deaton’s butchering of the Beacon Hills Nemeton has left the wards blind. Peter drives them as far as the roads will go into the forest, the same place Stiles took him to Undine’s Falls and the little pond. Stiles is angrily tapping away on his phone, while Derek has a terse call with Cora to let her know she and Isaac, along with the coven and others in town need to be on alert.

After Derek hangs up, he flicks his gaze to Stiles in the rear view mirror. “You need to calm down.”

Stiles grits his teeth, “That’s not. That hasn’t, no one has ever actually been calmed by those words, Derek. They’re not calming. They’re the opposite of that. They’re vexing. I’m vexed.

This wasn’t the plan! We were supposed to be in town, funneling Deaton _away_ from the forest. I can’t _see_ them.” He tugs at his hair and several of the sparks singe the leather upholstery.

Peter speaks without looking back, “We’re still connected to the Nemeton, Stiles. You can’t seem them, but you can _feel_ it. There’s confusion, anger, _hunger_. No distress. All they’ve accomplished is a slight leveling of the playing field.”

“...I hate level playing fields.”

Derek huffs and Peter nods as he pulls the car over.

“So do I, darling.”

It’s bloody, by the time they reach the fight, following Jiaying’s enraged howl through the trees.

One of the hunters is making an utterly abysmal crack about ‘catching a tiger by the tail’ and Peter is glad to see it cut off by Jiaying sinking her claws into his throat.

She’s only got one deer woman at her back, they must have been separated from the herd and other yōkai. One of the hunters slashes at the deer woman with a wooden knife, she bellows and recoils, clutching at her injured forearm and retreating back.

While Peter and Derek rush forward at the mercenaries, Stiles scans for Deaton. He can’t be far, he needs them to find the reborn Nemeton. While he searches, Stiles feels his pendant heat, hears the faint whisper from his grandmother dance on the edge of his perception, and he clenches his fist around the small pouch in his pocket. Derek is holding back one hunter while Jiaying guts the man with a graceful, brutal, swipe of her tails. Stiles can’t see the deer woman, did she go to get the herd? He finally spots Deaton, stepping out from the behind a hemlock, face somehow simultaneously blank and smug. God, Stiles hates him on sight.

Deaton lifts the corners of his mouth in the faintest of smiles, before dropping a dried leaf to the ground. It coils and spreads, slithering ropes that looks like dead things brought back wrong. Before Stiles can move back from the one creeping toward him, he’s brought down by another curling harshly around his neck. He struggles to see how the others are doing, and finds Derek and Peter bound similarly, growling and eyes alight. Jiaying spits and hisses as the restraints pull at her arms and tails.

“Your wards were impressive. It seems the rumours that the coven and creatures here are quite powerful are... quite true.” His faint smile widens. “It takes time and skill to handle a Nemeton, however. I’m sure Talia will be heartbroken to hear her dear brother was overwhelmed by the move and his new alpha spark, needing to be put down with her wayward children. You really should’ve stayed in Beacon Hills, you may have survived the removal of the alpha spark, despite being left something of a shell. Sometimes that’s how the balance works out.”

Deaton looks toward Peter, spreading his hands out in front of him.

“I suppose I should thank you, Peter. While I was initially dismayed you didn’t have the good grace to just _die_ with that alpha in the preserve like you were meant to, this has still resolved satisfactorily. More, I admit, than I could have hoped f—” Deaton cuts off abruptly, looking dazedly down to where the deer woman’s antler has punctured his side.

Stiles frees himself, and blows a chalky grey powder into Deaton’s face. The man drops like a rock.

Derek scowls and huffs, shaking off the crawling feeling of the restraints, “You couldn’t have done that sooner?”

The deer woman shrugs and looks at Stiles, whose face twitches consideringly, “I mean, we haven’t really had a villain monologue up here before. Usually it’s just ‘grr, argh, territory challenge’ or ‘hey we’re hunters, pew pew!’. I was curious, but honestly it was kind of cliché.”

Jiaying sneers down at Deaton imperiously, “No style at all _._ ”

Deaton is still sluggishly bleeding and unconscious when they arrive at the shallow pool at the bottom of Undine’s Falls. The deer woman steps forward, dragging Deaton by his arms.

“Falls that favour loyalty, that feasts on the faithless. We bring you tribute.”

She drags him closer still, then kicks him into the water.

At the first touch of Falls to flesh, Deaton starts to scream. And scream and scream.

His voice is cut off as soon as he’s fully submerged, but the acrid smell of flesh burning lingers in the air. Crimson spreads like watercolour in the pool. Peter’s brow furrows and he looks at Stiles, unimpressed. “...What would’ve happened when you first brought me here and I touched the rock wall if I _weren’t_ loyal?”

Stiles just waves off the question with an “eh, it all worked out.”

Peter isn’t sure if he’s flattered or annoyed. Probably more fascinated and turned on, if he’s honest with himself.

The deer woman nods to each of them, then takes off into the trees, back to her herd.

The arrival back into town is chaotic, with the coven thoroughly checking Stiles for injuries, the swan maidens fussing delicately over Jiaying, and Peter’s new betas aggressively scenting Derek and himself. He eventually manages to pry away, only to be left with a heavily frowning Cora glued to his side.

They agree to have everyone meet at the Forest House that evening, someone from the coven gleefully yells “POTLUCK!!!”, and the crowd begins to disperse until all that’s left is the pack. Cora drags them toward _Control the Spice_ grumbling about needing at least three chocolate croissants, while Derek charges past, with a competitive smirk on his face.

Peter finds his throat growing tight as he watches them push and laugh, because they are alive and happy and _his_. He swallows hard and Stiles comes up beside him, slipping their hands together.

“Come on, alpha. Let’s go feed your starving, worthy betas and then we can figure out how to tell your sister her emissary is waterfall chow.”

The betas listen, more or less without interruption, as Peter fills them in on what happened, lingering with only minor gore on Deaton’s demise.

Erica makes a face, “Okay, cool but gross. I don’t understand how your sister didn’t know about the feral alpha on her territory though. The minute you guys crossed our territory lines, Stiles completely freaked out on our group chat.”

Stiles pouts, “It wasn’t a freak out.”

Both Erica and Isaac roll their eyes, Isaac patting him on the back, “Man, you used your freak out emoji. That you made custom for ‘high alert freak outs’.”

Stiles doesn’t even need to look up to know the Hales all have stupid self-satisfied grins on their stupid perfect faces, so he occupies himself with grumbling into his hot chocolate.

While Peter is explaining an alpha’s connection to the land to the betas, he sees Cora and Derek exchange a look.

“What are we going to do about mom?” As much as Cora spoils at all times for a fight, the thought of dealing with any of her family from Beacon Hills is exhausting. She’s so torn between anger that they couldn’t just leave her Perpetual pack alone, and an aching sadness that it’s come to this. Derek puts an arm around her that she leans back into.

“As much as I would delight in another call with Talia, the Ajatar has requested we let her take lead, as the one with a longer claim to the forest and the first to discover Deaton’s little foray into our territory. I’m inclined to agree with her.” Peter’s grin is wry, he does love when things work out with minimal effort on his part.

“She should’ve just let us leave. She should’ve known what her emissary was up to.”

Stiles twists his pendant in his hand.

“Not much use in ‘should have’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Run cried the crawling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HpFAPApnzGE).
> 
> Almost done! Prior to starting writing, I'd occasionally read end notes that were like, I tried to make character X do Y but they did Z. And I'd think, that makes no sense to me at all. But then I started writing this one, trying to make it maybe a little heavier? Less fluffy? And instead they're just like, eating fucking chocolate croissants all the time and being wholesome. 
> 
> In between melting people.


	10. By night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles leans once more against Peter’s warmth. “You ever feel like you’re trying so hard to hold onto something, and it’s just slipping through your fingers like smoke?”

Being in Perpetual is a continual lesson in the unexpected. The Ajatar, with her regal mien, following of loyal deer women, never removing her horned mask, rules a small empire in the Cascades from her home office and boardroom. Peter remembers negotiations and treatises between packs being weeks long affairs growing up, all the logistics that came with having another pack on their land.

Now, they’re seated around a dark-stained walnut boardroom table, with pastries from _Control the Spice_ and a coffee station along the far wall. The deer woman who gored Deaton, Sandy, idly taps away at her laptop while they wait for the video call to connect.

Cora is slumped back in her chair, a pose Peter knows to be calculated indifference, while Derek sits between them, spine straight and jaw clenched. He squeezes his nephew’s shoulder and feels him relax a fraction, although Derek continues to stare at the painting of the Orion constellation on the opposite wall, rather than the large screen at the end of the table.

Talia looks... terrible, quite frankly. Peter is shocked at the state of her, the dark bags under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. He can see her trying to pull it together, to channel the carefully crafted Alpha persona he loathes. He tilts his head, attentive, as her gaze roves over her children, hungrily taking them in, searching for some sign of affection.

She’ll be searching for a while. Cora and Derek both bristle under control, and what she and Deaton attempted is unforgiveable.

“I am the Ajatar. Mistress of the Perpetual forest, of the Skagit Range. Here with me is Tabitha Achebe, elder of our coven, and Peter Hale, alpha of our pack.”

Tabitha inclines her head at the introduction, but her face is otherwise blank. Aggie sits to her left, uncharacteristically stoic and clad entirely in clotted blood red.

Talia takes a shaky breath in, “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances. Before we begin, I’d like to have a word with my brother, with my children.”

Cora’s frown deepens while Derek’s jaw ticks. Peter can feel Stiles worrying for them from across the table, and the dark looks on Tabitha and Aggie’s faces could blot out the sky.

Peter’s not made of stone. A (very small) part of him feels pity for his sister. Then he thinks about how she was willing to let him sink into catatonia simply because she couldn’t accept him as another alpha in the territory. “We’ve elected to have the Ajatar speak on all matters relating to Deaton’s transgressions, Talia. Say whatever it is you want to say, but we’re here at her leisure, not your convenience or to soothe your delayed bout of conscience.”

Talia, somehow, looks even more devastated. The Ajatar looks pleased, though, and Stiles looks slightly less ready to go to war. Again.

“You are aware, I’m sure, of your former emissary’s trespass onto our land. Although his death was inevitable, we do recognize it was a loss to you, and as such request no compensation. You will face enough difficulties without an emissary, or any blessing from a Nemeton on your land. But you and your pack are no friends of ours. You are not welcome here, ever. And we will not keep your secrets from any tribunal or council that enquires, niin metsä vastaa, kuin sinne huudetaan.”

The edge of Stiles’ mouth lifts in a faint smirk, and Peter makes a note to order in some Finnish language books to the shop.

“We will send along his effects, of course, should you wish to honour his passing. There is nothing left of his remains.”

“Peter, Derek, Cora. I am, I am _sorry_ that it ever came to this. I didn’t, I just wanted us to stay happy, like we _were_.” Talia’s broken voice should stir something other than rage inside of Peter, but he feels it simmering just below the surface, that she still won’t truly own her wrongs.

The Ajatar lets her finish, eyes impassive beneath her mask, before speaking once more, “I would advise you, Alpha Hale, to consider whether you speak of your pack’s happiness, or solely your own. Something to bear in mind, for the future. We are finished, now. Please send any further items to Sandy.” With a gesture to the deer woman, the call is ended.

As soon as the screen goes blank, Derek is up and angrily tearing into pastries. Peter figures stress eating isn’t the worst way to deal with this shitshow, and awkwardly pats his nephew on the back.

When he looks over, he sees Stiles and the witches bracketing Cora, talking in low tones. He’s so absorbed, he doesn’t realize the Ajatar has approached until she’s right beside him.

“Take care of your little mate, there, yes? He’s a fine one. Good with your pups. I would see him well-settled, he’s more fun to toy with that way.”

Derek chokes a surprised laugh around an almond danish, and Peter doesn’t fight a blush at all.

Possibly competing with the earlier Forest House potluck, the Ajatar has invited the whole town to her yard to celebrate their victory. Stiles drags a handsome couple over, introducing Jackson and Ethan to the Hales. Cora quickly starts grilling them on news from home. She doesn’t want to go back, but yes, yes she would like to hear about how Talia and Laura struggled to cope after they left.

Peter thinks Derek might be striking something up with the florist Oread, until he overhears their conversation and realizes they’re just talking about... compost teabags. He shrugs, as long as his nephew is happy, it’s fine if his most significant relationship outside of family is with Toasty the ghost.

Isaac, Erica, and Boyd are quickly drawn into the gossip Jackson is gleefully sharing, and Stiles whispers to Peter that he’s never letting them meet Lydia and Danny, “They would take over this town with their combined sass, you know? No one would ever respect me again.”

The swan maidens and yōkai hit the wine, hard, and grow increasingly more bawdy as the night wears on. Peter hears Jiaying and Aggie comparing notes on his... assets, and decides it’s time for him to see if Stiles would enjoy a quiet exit from the festivities.

They wander through the woods. The nights are colder now, summer truly over, but the fireflies still linger in the trees, lighting their way. Peter follows where Stiles leads, feeling the Nemeton pulse contentedly in the back of his mind. They end up on the same flat rock by the silver birch-lined pond.

Stiles leans once more against Peter’s warmth. “You ever feel like you’re trying so hard to hold onto something, and it’s just slipping through your fingers like smoke?”

Peter aches with understanding, “Yes, all my life.”

Stiles takes in the edge of his profile, trying to memorize every bit of Peter, the angles and textures, the smell of his skin. He has one hand on Peter’s thigh, and the other gripped tightly around his pendant. “I’m not good at letting go. I can’t... I won’t lose you.”

Peter’s eyes are embers in the dark, “Sweetheart, what makes you think I would ever let you?”

Stars slowly light up the sky, as Peter teases his tongue across Stiles’ lower lip, turning quickly into a deep, filthy kiss. He kisses away the gasp that follows, as sparks from Stiles’ fingertips trail down the rock, dying as soon as they hit the clear water below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [By night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdPMaMxL0xM).
> 
> Niin metsä vastaa, kuin sinne huudetaan. _The forest answers the same way you shout at it._  
>  A Finnish saying equivalent to "you reap what you sow."
> 
> So this is done! I'd hoped to have it done by Thanksgiving, but I'm only a few days late so I'm counting it as a win. Heck, if you're American, I'm like a month early.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sarahfairwrites) | [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/sarahfairwrites/)


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